Where I live, hitchhiking is safe. Moreover, it is an efficient means of travel. During a 10 mile drive to the grocery store, you might see five or six people “thumbing it”. No big deal out here. So, it was when I decided to pick up a hiker on Christmas Eve.
The sun was setting; almost cutting through the low clouds to force a bleeding red and orange sky. I couldn’t help but become mesmerized as I turned on to the county road right outside our driveway. A few minutes later, I was in a trance-like state. Sunsets like these are rare. Christmas Eve couldn’t have started out more spiritual then this, I thought to myself. At the point in my drive to town, I was surprised in not having encountered a single hiker; then again, it was Christmas. Maybe they’re sitting on their front porches watching the day cross into night. I thought about this scene and was relaxed even further; a peace fell upon my mind. No sooner had I considered the hikers, when I saw a hunched over Navajo raise his thumb in to the air. I wasn’t planning on picking anyone up because of my time crunch, but I couldn’t resist, it was Christmas.
Immediately, I stopped and pulled to the side of the road. As the hiker approached the window, I noticed the small, old Navajo man had a Denver Broncos sweatshirt over a large turquoise necklace. When he opened the door to get in, his hands were covered in turquoise and silver rings. His face was kind. He sat down, smiled in a Navajo-kind-of-way and closed the door.
“Where to?” I asked. Instead of answering the Navajo pointed straight ahead towards the sun. “So, to town, right?” The Navajo nodded. “OK, well, welcome aboard.” We drove for about 10 minutes in total silence. I assumed he was captured by the setting sun, as I was. When we reached town, I pulled the car to the side of the road and said, “is this OK for you? I’m sorry, I guess I should’ve asked where you wanted to go in particular.” The Navajo looked at me confused and pointed left. Almost without thinking otherwise, I did what I was told.
A few minutes later and after seeing my anxiety about how far we were heading left, the Navajo said, “we are picking up some things.”
“What things? I’ve got to get to a Christmas party, so how far? And what things, again?” I was slurring as I said this. I almost felt light headed. The old Navajo looked at me as I spoke.
“Some small things. Don’t worry, real quick.” His voice was calming and seemed to resonate in my head. It was as if his voice was in my head. He smiled.
A few minutes later we were at a small Hogan, which serves as a traditional dwelling for the Navajo people. The old man got out of the car and went inside. What am I doing? I thought out loud to myself. I’ve got to get to the party. I seemed to think this as though breaking from a trance. Almost immediately the Navajo appeared from the Hogan carrying a tattered sheepskin bag. He smiled.
We left the Hogan and drove two or so miles down the road to a tribal gas station. Another old man walked to the car and handed my passenger a carton of cigarettes. They exchanged nods and next we drove to a roadside stand. The old Navajo got out my car and disappeared behind the stand.
I thought. Where is this all going? I’ve got to get to the party. How much longer is this going to take? Again, I seemed to break some kind of a trance. I even noticed that my mouth was open. Just then, the Navajo man returned with a large wool rug. He smiled.
“Last stop.” He said pointing East.
“OK, but I’ve got to get to a party, this has to be the last one. Hey, what’s your name?” I didn’t expect an answer to my question as Navajos aren’t usually the most talkative people.
“Frank. Just a few miles up the road.” The old man said while organizing his blanket, sheepskin bag and cigarettes into a neat little pile on his lap.
We arrived at an old single-wide trailer next to a large
“Well, here you go. Merry Christmas.” I said thinking this was the end of our lengthy and strange encounter.
“You should come in too.” The old man said and smiled.
The trance-like state hit me again and I obliged. “OK, but this, um, has to be it.” I seemed to be fighting some weird force. It was curiosity mixed with a mental haze that I couldn’t quite place.
The trailer was packed with people. We could barely open the door to get into the main living room. However, when the occupants saw the old man, they all seemed to mold into the side of the walls. Immediately, the people cleared and in the middle of the room was a small baby carriage, a mother and father by its side. The old man looked at the mother and father and smiled. Then, he passed the carton of cigarettes to another old Navajo in the room. They both nodded to each other in some form of communication I could almost understand. They were paying respects. This was more than an old man, I figured. He was a holy man. The Navajo knelt down near the baby carriage. He opened his sheepskin bag and took out a some jewelry, some stones and what appeared to be a small woven object. Then he rolled out the blanket, reached into the carriage and placed the baby on the soft decorative wool.
All the other Navajos in the trailer were looking at the old man and the baby. No one seemed to be concerned that there was a white man in the trailer. I felt incredibly uncomfortable. Should I leave? What am I doing here? What about the party? I thought about leaving. Just then, the old man turned to me and smiled.
I couldn’t help but think about the nativity scenes I’d grown up with. Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and the holy men would be awestruck by the baby Jesus. As I looked around the room, I saw almost the exact same thing. My former passenger was cradling the baby and singing softly. The mother and father were watching intensely. They looked to the old man and then smiled at each other. After a few minutes, another old man tapped me on the shoulder and threw his head to the front door.
“Let’s go outside and smoke. You can’t see the next part.” He said opening the door so I could leave first.
I whispered back to the old man, “OK, but…”
The new old man, not the one I had driven around town, interrupted me and said, “come one, let’s smoke.”
We walked outside. The old man took out one of the packets of cigarettes and passed me one. I didn’t really care to smoke, but I wouldn’t give up the chance to calm my nerves after this weird evening. We stood on the front porch, lit the cigarettes and stared at the moon which was very bright.
“You’re wondering what you’re doing here, huh?” The old man said while exhaling after a long drag from his cigarette.
“Yeah, I am. I’ve got to go actually. Seriously, thanks for the smoke, but I got to.” I was getting more anxious and really wanted to leave.
“Ah, you’ll be OK. Listen, that old fart you drove around today is my brother. He’s a holy man and here to bless my new Grandson. Kind of Christian, ain’t it?”
“You can say that again. Is the child special or something?”
“Isn’t every child special?”
“Well, I meant…”
“You meant is he some kind of Indian savior. Naw, he’s just a regular old Grandson, but who knows, maybe he’ll grow up to be the next Denver Bronco’s quarterback. That would be a pretty cool miracle.”
I laughed and so did my new friend. We talked for a few more minutes. Then Frank, the holy man, opened the door and stepped out on to the patio. He and his brother exchanged handshakes and spoke some brief Navajo. I figured this was part of the ritual I had experienced in the trailer earlier. They looked at each other with compassion and respect. Frank’s brother looked at me and said, “thanks for the smoke, take care.” He left and I was alone with the holy man, Frank.
I wasn’t sure if I should just leave, break the awkward night-time silence between Frank and me or just continue smoking. I really needed to get going. Then, Frank turned to me and said, “thanks for the ride. This child just may make one helluva Bronco’s quarterback, if you believe in miracles.”
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